Fate's Scapegoat
by Riddle Me Rhyme
Summary: Sometimes, Fate thinks it amusing to play a more significant role in the life of an average human being, and then add a bitter swirl of hindsight to raise the stakes. Is Tom Riddle's humanity completely irretrievable?
1. Prologue

_I am often so struck by the lack of imagination concerning certain "lesser" characters that I am forced to write a story about them. It is logical that I would not be so offended by my own created world._

_**Prologue**_

Hermione's first thought was that it tasted crunchy, and slightly bitter. When it began to crackle and tingle on her tongue, she gritted her teeth together and continued to force it down her throat. When she felt the individual grains brand themselves into her very pores, and begin to _burn, _she almost choked on her tongue trying not to scream. And then there was a rising tide of brightness beginning behind her eyes, forcing its way across her vision, blinding her with its intensity as she struggled under a weight that was crushing her body limb by limb. It began in her fingers and toes, spreading with a rush of fire through her veins. Hermione heard her heart falter, and then felt it hiccup to a stop in deafening silence. And all she could do was scream _Summer of 1944 _and hope that Fate was feeling kind.

Disappearing _hurt._

_---_

A/N: I'll be updating about once a week until this story is finished, I hope. I love to hear your opinions, or I wouldn't be posting this. I value your views, even if they aren't complimentary. I would wave a large notice board with "REVIEW" in giant flashing letters if I thought it would help, but graphics aren't my forte.

~ Rhymer


	2. Introductions

_Would I really publish my works on a fanfiction site if I were the author of Harry Potter?_

_**Chapter One**_

Hermione regained consciousness with the nagging feeling that she'd just had a run-in with Bellatrix Lestrange. Her every nerve tingled with a slow, burning feeling, and she couldn't seem to move. Her throat was terribly, achingly dry, and her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Moreover, she was naked. Her body was covered only by a light sheet.

It was surreal, struggling to control the muscles around her eyes, which felt crusted and grainy. Even that small shiver of movement seemed to drain her of energy, and she lay sunk into the bed, her limbs strangely heavy. A vestige of the pain she'd felt earlier lingered, almost lovingly, around her eyelids, and when her eyes flickered open, they failed to latch onto anything. Trying to swallow the feeling of panic that was pooling in her belly, she blinked again, and again. Still, the sheer thickness of the black void that filled her vision was terrifyingly present.

"Ah, you're awake, are you?" It was a matronly voice, but unfamiliar to her. The tone was slightly sharper than Madam Pomfrey's, and Hermione imagined its owner to be tall and slender, like a willow wand. Recovering her voice seemed to be out of her grasp at the current moment, and when she opened her mouth, only a gurgle rattled deep in her throat. The person moved closer with a rustle, and tutted. "Now, now, none of that. You're very lucky to be alive, miss."

She felt cool hands brush over her forehead, and flutter at her wrists. It appeared that this mediwitch (she supposed she was, anyway, as the bedsheets beneath her were starched to the exact same extent as those in the hospital wing of her own time) preferred to take her pulse the muggle way. Or had they not yet reached the same level of diagnostic charms as in 1998? It was a chasm of more than half a century, and Hermione suddenly felt the yawning gap between those cultures. Minerva and Severus were as good as a Universe away.

_What was I thinking_?

Some of her despair must have etched itself in the lines of her face, because the voice somewhere above her head had softened. "Do you think you could answer a few questions for me, miss?" Hermione's throat constricted, but her head sank forward in an exhausted nod. Her unspoken plea for water was evident, and after a moment, a hand slid under Hermione's head, and she felt her chin dip forward as the cool glass settled against her chapped lips. The water, cold and gentle, slipped down the young woman's throat in a soothing ribbon, and she gave a satisfied noise.

"What is your name?" No preambling on the Mediwitch's part, that was for certain. There was no point in lying. No doubt they were already suspicious because of her strange arrival. There had been a faintly bitter aftertaste to the water, she realised belatedly, feeling the compulsion to answer become a dead weight against her chest. She fought against it by asking a question of her own. "Was that Veritaserum?" Hermione's voice rasped in her throat, but the words were easy enough to form.

"Answer the question." This voice was new, cold, and far deeper than the Mediwitch's modulated tones. For a strange, hopeful moment, Hermione imagined that it was her mentor's voice. It was so similar to Severus' smooth timbre that she could almost believe it. But no, Severus would never grip her wrist so firmly that she knew it would leave bruises. The man shook her slightly, and she could hear the great rage that he was keeping under control – barely – as he repeated his command.

She struggled briefly, and then yielded to the urge to answer. "Hermione Granger."

"Where do you come from?"

"Surrey." Belatedly, she realised that it would have been wiser to name an area closer to the school, but her tongue was no longer her own. She closed her eyes, hating the darkness that surrounded her when they were open, but found no relief even when they fluttered shut. The mediwitch's companion growled, although his long fingers were lifted from her thin wrist.

"Have you ever worked for Herr Hitler?" The question seemed so absurd that she could have laughed, but the energy required was too great.

"That German maniac?" she expostulated.

"_Answer the question._"

"No, I never have." Frustrated anger was beginning to swell in her chest. What did they think she was?

"Are you, in any way, involved in trying to kill or harm an individual at this faculty?" Panic flooded her, taking away the graininess of her rage and instead almost choking her with its own intensity.

"Possibly," she managed to grind out. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. Inside her own head she completed her reply. _But only because he will ruin the world and become an egomaniac whose influence is so vast that even after he is finally dead, the Ministry will remain corrupted and vile. _

"Why?" her interrogator insisted. The potion wrapped its steely coils around her ribcage and began to _squeeze. _White dots speckled her vision, and she gasped, the breath catching in her throat and refusing to be expelled. The pain that had begun to tingle in her body was different to that which her own journey had inflicted upon her. Instead of being so bright and intense that it burned her, this was cold, ruthless and insistent. Hermione tried to focus her mind on the ingredients of Featherweight Elixir, but found that the majority of ingredients eluded her, and that she couldn't remember whether one stirred in an anti-clockwise direction after the puffer skin had been added, or whether it needed to be folded four and a quarter turns.

Her life gurgled in her throat, and immediately firm fingers lifted her head up and forced a vial of _something _between her lips. As she spluttered and choked, their owner firmly informed the man that their captive was useless if she expired during his interrogation.

"You may resume questioning her when she is fully recovered, Tom, and not before. She's barely in any fit state to do anything other than rest at the moment."

She felt, rather than saw, the swish of his robes as he stood abruptly.

"Very well, Catherine." As soon as the doors to the ward heralded his exit with a soft thud, Hermione curled into a trembling, humiliated ball. Her bare skin felt raw where the sheet rested, and even though she could hear the Mediwitch approaching, a lonely tear crept down her cheek, and she tasted salt. Whether Catherine had seen it or not did not echo in her voice, as she adjured the young woman to open her mouth in a businesslike tone. The bitter taste of failure mingled with the sleeping draught as Hermione followed it into sleep, wondering why the voice of her now recognisable foe was that of a mature man, and not of a 17-year-old student.

* * *

Tom strode into his quarters with his mouth set in a firm line, and firmly quashed the instinctive urge to consult his mentor about the oddity that was even now in the hospital wing. Albus was currently in London, and Tom was twenty years old. There was no need to go running to the older man whenever he was faced with a problem.

And a problem it was. When he had discovered the young woman in the dim light of his classroom, his first worry had been that she was already dead. The pallor of her skin was paler than that of his own, and her mouth was slack. The lifeblood that had slipped from between her lips had stilled, and it was only when he bent to hover his fingers over the vein at her neck that he realised she was naked. He had covered her with a blanket, and sent a house elf to summon Madam Fetchley. Catherine had come almost immediately, and had taken charge in that quiet, unassuming manner of hers, which Tom had been more than willing to relinquish. The silent, dark-haired professor may have been a master before a cauldron, but with situations such as this, he was at a loss.

He would have forgotten about her, had not the new headmaster summoned him to his office, and asked him whether he would be able to provide four doses of Veritaserum. It was a dangerous business, and he would have been within his rights to refuse, considering that the Ministry deemed its brewing illegal. Even the storing of so few doses would lead to a sizeable fine or a short stay at Azkaban – a place that Tom was dedicated to ensuring he never saw. But he trusted Albus Dumbledore, and so, less than eight hours later, his sure hands decanted the required number of doses into small vials. Pragmatic as he was, he also brewed the antidote.

Their presence in his private storage made his nerves tingle with wariness the entire fortnight that their impromptu guest was unconscious, even though the student population of the school was not due to return for another five weeks. Catherine was worried. She had not been able to issue her patient with clothes, or even a nightgown, as such was the apparent rawness of her skin that she cried out with every small contact. The meticulous mediwitch was reduced to dosing her with Pepperup Potions, and covering her with a sheet to preserve her modesty, as any spells that she attempted in order to keep her patient warm seemed to have an adverse effect.

Tom told himself that the sight of the livid scars that viciously stood out on her abdomen didn't fill him with rage at whoever had inflicted them upon her, but merely surprised him. The way she shivered frequently, her limbs cramping and her muscles seizing, lead him to his own conclusions. This young woman had endured the Cruciatus for a long period of time, although he was still at a loss as to how the jagged red lines had come to be present. How could he think of her as an enemy, when she had evidently suffered so much?

He had struggled briefly to master his own emotions when entering the hospital wing to question her, on behalf of Albus Dumbledore. She had appeared so frail, and vulnerable, and yet the mere thought that she could be intending harm to any of his colleagues or the students whom he taught filled him with such cold rage that it had been difficult to keep the venom out of his voice. Catherine had no doubt thought him the cold, emotionless man he always appeared to be, but he had never been presented with such a contradiction of emotion before. _How could she prefer to die rather than answer the question_? he asked himself, savagely wishing that his bloody mentor would just leave him alone and let him get on with forgetting. _Forgetting the war. Forgetting the dead._

_Forgetting how it felt to kill._

* * *

Author's Note: Whoop! I didn't actually think anyone would review this story, so thank you so much! It really made my week to see what you all said about it, and also to see how many people have added this to their story alert/favourite story list. Thirty! 0_o It would be absolutely wonderful if you lurkers could review as well. I really appreciate feedback.

Sorry that it's taken so long to update. The next will be quicker, I assure you.

I know it seems to be quite dark at the moment, but that is merely because the matters it addresses are pretty hefty. It will get lighter as the plot evolves. Hope you enjoyed this update!


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